Three, Two, One
by Lassiter
Summary: So, they're in a night club. [Slash. Derrick/Travis.]


DISCLAIMER: Characters not mine.  
WARNINGS: Slash. As in guys getting down with other guys. If it's not your bag, don't blame me for the five minutes you spend writing a flame.

  
  
**Three, Two, One**  
  
  
Four: the number of girls Derrick flirted with tonight.  
  
One: the number of boys Derrick flirted with tonight.  
  
Himself: the boy with which Derrick was flirting.  
  
Contrary to popular belief, not all artists are gay. Travis hoped Derrick remembered this, though he seriously doubted Derrick remembered anything pre-mai tai. His hand was on Travis's knee and his head rested in his hand on the bar. He was saying something about Jamaica. The bartender stared. Jones was nofuckingwhere in sight.  
  
This was fifteen minutes ago.  
  
-  
  
Twelve: the number of metres from the bar to the men's room.  
  
One: the number of blouses ruined because Travis was in too much of a hurry going from said bar to said men's room. The girl yelled at him, told him this shirt was fucking _silk_, you fucking asshole, and Travis ducked away before she got violent.  
  
Derrick: the boy who casually sauntered after the flustered artist, hands in his pocket and a smirk on his face.  
  
The club was flashy and the bathroom even flashier. The only reason shmucks like Jones and himself ever got into these places was because of Derrick. That much was clear, was made crystal clear by Derrick himself, way back. Well, Travis was getting out.  
  
Which would be a problem if he was in the bathroom.  
  
Shit.  
  
Thinking on his feet had never been a strength of his.  
  
Travis contemplated climbing out of the window like they do in the movies, but all that went out the window that night was sense and composure when Derrick walked in.  
  
Two: the number of people in the men's room.  
  
One: the number of people in the men's room who were really freaked out.  
  
Zero: the level of tranquillity in Travis's brain.  
  
"Stop fucking with me," said Travis. "This isn't funny."  
  
This was ten minutes ago.  
  
-  
  
So they were kissing against the bathroom wall and Derrick was laughing into his mouth because Travis didn't have a clue what he was doing. He said something that sounded like "You're pathetic" or "Whores aplenty." Whatever. In any case Travis may not be the smooth operator like Derrick, but it still seemed like a bad idea to talk while kissing. Especially to say something like that.  
  
Derrick trapped Travis against the wall and broke the kiss to say, "That didn't go too well."  
  
Travis wondered if this meant they had to stop.  
  
"Just sit back and let me handle this, yeah?"  
  
"Um—" Travis began.  
  
"Shut up."  
  
So there was that kiss again. Alcohol, fruit, and something that Travis suspected you wouldn't be able to find in your regular drugstore. That might explain a few things. Travis was in the mood for explaining none of them.  
  
Derrick kissed rather fiercely; their teeth clacked together and Travis wasn't sure if he really wanted his bottom lip in Derrick's mouth at this rate, even if it did feel sort of nice. Travis put one hand awkwardly on the back of Derrick's neck, massaging it in what he hoped was a sufficiently sexy manner. Derrick reciprocated by undoing Travis's belt.  
  
This was five minutes ago.  
  
-  
  
Three: the number of seconds Travis was given after coming, before having his breath was taken away. Another kiss.  
  
He couldn't fucking breathe.  
  
Derrick left light kisses on Travis's chin, the edge of his mouth, the pulse below his ear. He was fascinated by the intensity of the rhythm. "So," he said. "Do you think we'll remember this?"  
  
"I… maybe. I don't know."  
  
"Am so fucking out of it, man…"  
  
"I can tell."  
  
Derrick took a wobbly step back, a plastered smile on his face. "I'm sure you can." He reached up to pat Travis genially on the cheek Reflexes were slow tonight; Travis dodged too late and Derrick touched his face in mock amiability, staining him with his own semen.  
  
"Fucking _fuck_ you!" Travis spat out, twisting away.  
  
"Not tonight," Derrick laughed. He began washing his hands, and Travis knew he ought to be washing his face, but he couldn't bring himself to come anywhere near Derrick. Not without sobriety. Derrick looked at him in the mirror. Travis looked away.  
  
Derrick left the bathroom at the same time another man entered. The man paused at the doorway, eyeing Travis suspiciously. Travis, who had adopted a deer-in-headlights stance for the occasion, froze. The stranger raised an eyebrow and glanced over his shoulder at where Derrick would have been.  
  
"Well," he said. "Looks like you two had fun. XYZ, flyboy."  
  
Travis zipped his pants up, blushing furiously. The man continued to the urinals, and he made a beeline for the sinks, red-faced and with a growing bitterness. The hot water spurted out of the tap full blast and Travis rubbed his face vigorously until he couldn't even feel the memory of Derrick's hand on his cheek.  
  
This was now.  
  
-  
  
[end.]  



End file.
